


Menteur

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Zack Jimmermann!” Bitty crows. “You are a gem.” || menteur (n.) - un qui ne dit pas la vérité.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menteur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chocoholic2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocoholic2/gifts).



> my 'swawesome santa fill is a day late, but good things come to those who didn't know they were waiting in the first place, right [chocoholic2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chocoholic2)??????
> 
> i hope you enjoy this soulmate au that (veeeeeerrrrrry briefly) touched on your other request. have a lovely december, and thank you for such a challenging prompt!
> 
> summary translation: "liar (noun) - one who does not tell the truth."
> 
> the french included within the fic is nonessential to the plot, so i haven't provided a translation like i usually do in my endnotes. VERY rudimentary translations are there in hovertext, but you don't really need to know what the words mean to understand the story. my recommendation is to ignore them except as dividers unless you already read/know french.

#  **_le prélude_**

It’s an old wives’ tale Bitty’s heard from his Moo Maw as long as he can remember; sitting on her lap in the kitchen chair while the warm smell of vanilla permeated the air.

“You can’t lie to your soulmate, Dicky,” she’d tell him, curling her fingers through his ringlets that hadn’t yet darkened with age. “She’s gonna be your other half, and there won’t be nothing you can hide from her.”

Eric has a flashbulb memory of Coach taking him out to a local softball game and getting conked on the head by a foul, leaving a lump not much smaller than the thing that made it. Of course, he’d been so little then, only four or five maybe, he’d been crazy with the pain and fear of getting hit, but what had really ironed the narrative in was what’d happened when they’d gone home.

“Listen, Junior,” Coach’d told him in the truck, big hand rattling Eric’s knee. “Might be for the best if we tell your mama you knocked your head on the car door. You know how nervous she gets.”

And then, in juvenile horror, Bitty’d watched with teary eyes while his father had lied right to his mother’s face, shattering his notions of what it meant to be in love.

The fallout had been tremendous, of course, and when Eric ran up to his room and his parents’ raised voices chased him up the stairs, it hadn’t done anything to ease the new weight in his little heart. Becky Beaumont’s parents were divorcing, and his teacher told their class it meant that they’d have to be especially nice to her because she was going through a real hard time.

Bitty’d been inconsolable; he didn’t want a real hard time at all, and his creaky sobs grew too loud for him to hear anything outside his bedroom. It was a surprise, then, when his mother crept into his room and gasped, “Oh, honey,” like her heart was breaking all over again.

“Dicky, your daddy shouldn’t have asked you to lie to me. It wasn’t right, and he knows that.”

She’d scooped him up into her lap, and while she looked at the ostrich egg on his forehead, she told him that he wasn’t in any trouble; he hadn’t lied even, and she was proud that he was such a good boy that it made him so upset to think of fibbing to her.

“But Mama,” Eric had sniffled, “does this mean you’re getting a divorce?”

In his fragile state, he really hadn’t appreciated her laughing at him.

“Honey, we’re not getting a divorce. It was a little white lie.”

“But soulmates can’t lie!” he’d protested stridently, clutching at his mother’s fingers to get her to understand just how dire the situation really was.

“Oh, no, that fairytale? Did Moo Maw tell you that?” she’d asked him, smoothing sweaty hair back away from his face once she freed her hand from Bitty’s desperate grip. Eric had nodded minutely, and to his relief, she hadn’t giggled.

With a kiss to his forehead, she’d said, “Now listen, last month you told me you only ate two cookies before dinner, but there were three missing from my last batch. You lied then, didn’t you?”

Stricken, he had had no idea how to respond.

“It’s okay, sweet pea. You can tell me, and I won’t get mad,” she’d said with an encouraging smile.

“Yes. I lied.” He’d confessed it with disgust, casting the words off like the blackest mark. He’d been ashamed, and his darling mother was so kind that she was willing to forgive him just like she’d forgiven Coach.

“There, you see?” she’d begun, but Bitty didn’t. “Now, you’re not gonna tell me you don’t love me, are you?”

“No! I love you times a million, I promise! I promise!” Eric had cried and thrown his face into her torso, arms around her belly, eyes leaking.

His mother’s hug had been just as fierce, cradling him tight against her chest. If Eric were a wizard, his memory of this hug would be what fueled his Patronus.

“I know, Dicky. I love you, too. That’s my point.” She’d tucked her finger under his chin so he’d look up at her doting smile. “It’s not okay to lie, but sometimes we do bad things to people we love. That doesn’t mean we don’t love them with our whole hearts. You understand?”

Bitty’s relief had made him lightheaded. He’d been able to feel himself dozing off in his mother’s arms, but he’d made himself nod as earnestly as his exhausted body could.

His mother had seen right through him, of course. She’d combed through his hair one more time with her fingers, just like Moo Maw, and told him it would be a good idea to go to bed early that night.

As he’d drifted off, he’d been comforted knowing his parents still loved each other. It wasn’t until he’d been just on the cusp of sleep that he’d thought that if you could love more than one person at a time like Bitty loved his parents and Moo Maw all at once, being someone’s soulmate must have meant there was more to it than just love. He’d been so close to drifting off, though, that it had slipped away, and he really hasn’t thought about it since.

***

“So, Jack, why did you come to Samwell?” the dean of student life had asked him. They’d just squared away his single in the student dorms—no chance of any breach of privacy that might come with his minor celebrity being exposed to an excitable eighteen-year-old; no potential for his jocks to end up on eBay. Again.

His first billet family hadn’t been a great match.

“Oh, you know. My mother, mostly.”

It had been a shock to anyone who still cared when he formally announced he would be attending Samwell University. It wasn’t his most scandalous move by a long shot, but no one could understand why Jack Zimmermann would go to a school whose hockey team had never so much as made it to the frozen four unless he didn’t plan to make a comeback at all.

 _My mom’s alma mater_ was an easier answer to have on hand than _the most LGBT friendly school in the United States_. It wasn’t untrue, either; there had been a Canadian school Jack had considered, but the idea of keeping a little piece of home with him during his transition back into the wider world had been tempting.

If he wanted to indulge himself for once, he would. He would pretend for four years that his world was a more accepting place than professional athletics would ever let it be. He wouldn’t come out, of course. There were still too many rumors about him and Parse, and now that he was poking his head back out, he’d get no relief.

“It’s nice to have a legacy on campus,” the dean had said benignly.

The words had curdled the mild hope he’d been fostering. His smile lurched, tugging the muscles in his jaw and cheeks down low, and he tugged the ends of his hair.

“Yeah. Nice.”

“Let’s get you to the photo id center.”

They’d walked off, the lanes among the scattered buildings still a week out from seeing any students, and Jack had braced himself for whatever was to come.

# **_le premier _ **

“You need to eat more protein,” Jack tells him.

He’s been frustrated with Bittle, and he hasn’t hidden it well. The kid has great instincts on ice and a lot of potential, but he’s so afraid of being hit he’s all but useless. This close to his senior year, when Jack’s hoping to prove his time at Samwell won’t be four wasted years, he doesn’t have time for a literal fainting violet.

Still, he hadn’t meant to embarrass him. Eric is far and away this year’s pet frog—something about being so small the other boys called him “Bitty” without a second’s hesitation and having the same mannerisms as a Jane Austen character made the team protective. Ransom and Holster corral him around campus like every other Wellie is an opposing defenseman, and Shitty hasn’t taken this naturally to anyone since Lardo, and before her Jack.

He’s definitely not jealous that Bitty’s swooped in with his pies and his Taylor Swift and monopolized all of Jack’s friends, but he is annoyed that someone with as much training and experience as Bitty is finishing off a workout with a plate full of french toast.

Still, he could’ve gone the route of a gentle chirp: _“Is all that sugar how you broke the sprint record I set last year?”_

It would’ve gotten his point across without sending the table into an awkward tailspin, and he would have even managed to work in a genuine compliment.

That sort of disingenuous ribbing has never felt natural to Jack except with his friends. When he doesn’t know someone well enough, it feels deceptive to the point of lying, but he’s done it before for the sake of keeping the peace.

As Bitty whips his head away, muscles of his delicate jaw working with tension and blooming with a red flush, Jack wonders why he couldn’t manage to pull it off this time.

It happens again, only louder and in front of the entire team.

“—either quit or get with the program!” he remembers bellowing, his body tensing with muscle recall of the strain and coil of leaning into Bitty’s face to drive his point home.

If anyone had told Jack the same when his own insecurities were as blatant as Bitty’s are now, it would have shattered him. He would have quit, full stop. Some hollow cavern beneath his ribs where his heart used to be can’t believe he’s done this to someone else.

He’s not known for his gentle hand as a captain, but Jack’s never been cruel.

He can’t be charitable when every time Bitty sees Rans out of the corner of his eye or senses Holtzy closing in, he flinches. He freezes up and loses his edge as if two of his best friends are legitimate threats. If his own teammates scare him like that, then what is Bitty even doing but wasting Jack’s time?

It’s guilt then, combined with a reality check after Bitty gets an assist on one of his goals in their opener, that motivates him to open Faber early one morning and work through whatever block is holding Bitty back.

For all that they’re similar on paper, it’s amazing how little Bitty and Parse are alike. Parse knew from the beginning that being as small as he was would affect the way his game, and it made him a smarter player. A switchblade in the hands of a master will have done its work before the amateur with a broadsword has even had the chance to draw.

On the other hand, Bitty lacks every single ounce of Parse’s killer instinct. He’s smart, and there’s a lot of raw potential, but he plays like someone twice his size. He’s about as cautious as Holster, as though the idea of someone sending him flying doesn’t occur to him until he’s already midair.

Jack’s prepared to work for however long it takes to get him over his hang up about getting hit because he’s starting to see the potential. It just makes it that much more frustrating on family weekend when Bitty scores a game winner with his eyes shut.

No one would have congratulated Jack for a shot like that—the team, sure, for clinching the win, but Jack himself? Why would they?

If Jack had stood there, frozen in his skates and looking to pass the puck off to literally anyone else, he’d have gotten his ass handed to him. It was an alignment of the stars and planets that the rest of the boys held off enough of the Yale team that Bitty didn’t get mowed down; it was a goddamn miracle that his helter-skelter shot made it into the net while he wasn’t even looking; Johnson would have called it _Deus ex Machina_ that the goalie’s glove is new and too stiff to have caught the puck as it flew past his shoulder.

Jack’s never had so many things go right for him at once in his life.

Bitty, at least, knows he got off easy. He’s happy, and he’s got every right to be, but he brushes off the congratulations with humble little thanks and dismissals. His act only seems to encourage his new fans, though—Jack’s father among them. It grates on every one of Jack’s nerves to listen to the never-ending stream of bullshit praises until he finally bails and hits the showers.

It’s not Bitty he’s upset with, but he wishes anyone but Eric had caught up with him outside the rink.

“It was a lucky shot.”

# **_le milieu_ **

“I don’t get it, man. I just can’t lie to him,” Jack says into the rim of his beer bottle. The silhouette of the row houses backlit by the sun makes him wish he had a camera. The view from the reading room has always been worth the risk of crashing through the porch ceiling, as far as Jack’s concerned.

Shitty peeks over his shoulder to check that Bitty’s room is still empty.

“I dunno, don’t you think that’s kind of a good thing? You’re opening up, coming out of your shell a little more.”

Jack hums, pitched low, and his chest rumbles with it.

“You’ve been way less robot-y lately. Haven’t pulled a paranoid android since Epikegster.”

“Just around Bittle, though. I can’t lie to him. It’s just—whatever I’m thinking. He pulls it out of me.”

Shaking out his hair, Shitty chuckles. “I know what you mean. I think it’s those eyes: all big and shit. He’s like a goddamn woodland creature.”

And _there_ , Jack thinks Shitty’s missed the point.

No one really _wants_ to lie to Bitty. Bitty’s sweeter than his own desserts, and his smile has significantly contributed to global warming.

No one wants to lie to Bitty, except Jack, who would just for once love to bite his tongue when his thoughts rush in a jumble to make it first to Bitty’s ears.

Jack would love to lie to Bitty once in a while—it would have come in handy last year when he was so jealous of Bitty’s easy friendliness that just seeing him put Jack in a bad mood. It would have saved Bitty some heartache and Jack a lot of regret if he’d been able to grin and bear it, keeping his venomous thoughts to himself.

This year, it just would be nice not to feel like Bitty knows every last detail about him without having to try. Jack hasn’t even told Bitty everything—and Bitty hasn’t pushed—but he would have to be pretty obtuse not to understand the broader strokes of Jack’s history with Parse.

“That’s not really…” Shitty waits for Jack to string something together, the picture of patient understanding, but Jack has nothing. “Yeah, I guess.”

***

“I can’t believe you’re blowing off your morning run to help me bake!”

Bitty’s prepping for Spring C in the only way he knows how. He’d bought an assortment of apples for tarts (“They’ll be much neater if you’re too drunk to manage a goopy filling”), and Jack hadn’t thought twice before he pulled Bitty’s spare apron over his track suit and offered his services.

“I won’t have many more chances to be your sous chef,” Jack says, unbidden and traitorously. He glares at the dappled, pink skin of the apple in his hands, trying not to compare its color to the back of his neck and his cheeks.

“Flatterer,” Bitty chuckles. His hands are covered in egg, so he nudges Jack’s shoulder with his forehead.

When he thinks about things too much around Bitty, he says them. He’s not sure why, but it’s been nearly two years, and he’s figured that much out. So instead of dwelling on the sweet affection of the gesture, Jack fishes the paring knife out of its drawer and gets to work.

It’s not especially hard work, and he’s got good hands, so after about thirty seconds he’s produced a spiral of the apple skin, bobbing in his grip.

“I guess someone’s getting married!” Bitty laughs, catching Jack mid-step on his way to trash it.

“Excuse me?”

“The peel,” Bitty says. He points to the top of the garbage can and clicks his tongue, chiding Jack with, “Although I’m not sure how I’d feel if I were the one marrying you, considering you just threw that out.”

“Bittle, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, it’s just one of those things. Urban legends? Maybe y’all don’t have this one in Montreal?”

Jack’s heart hammers, the whole upper right quadrant of his torso rippling with shocks. He doesn’t know that he could reply even if he knew what to say. He’s beginning to sense the worst is over with, but his lungs still struggle to catch enough air.

“Well, you know. It’s like _if_ _you’re nose itches, it means someone’s talking about you_. Or that old _you can’t lie to your soulmate_ story. If you peel an apple all at once, it means you’ll be married within the year.”

It’s silly.

It’s silly, and it’s superstitious.

Jack has habits like any other athlete, but they’ve always been more for the comfort of routine than because he actually believes making a PB and J will help him win.

Jack doesn’t believe that his nose itching means someone’s talking about him, because if that were true, he’d have spent most of his life scratching. And he’s not a psychic, but he’s pretty confident that having a steady hand with a paring knife doesn’t have any bearing on his marriage prospects.

But, God help him; he can’t lie to Bitty.

_I am not afraid of disappointing my father._

“I’m afraid no matter where I sign, I’m never going to live up to my dad’s legacy,” Jack says instead.

He’d framed the opposite up in his mind, scripted it out, and planned the way each syllable would fall, but when he tried to tell Bitty a blatant lie, the words wouldn’t come.

Something different and terrifyingly honest came in their place.

“Oh, Jack,” Bitty hums. He dusts his floury palms off on the flap of his apron and folds Jack’s hands in his. Jack’s jaw is slack and his eyes slide shut under his furrowed brows until Bitty squeezes his fingers.

“I hate that you think that way. It’s not your job to be your dad all over again,” Bitty says.

It’s not so cloying coming from him, knowing how different Bitty turned out from the son Coach had probably been expecting. Still, Jack’s heard so many iterations of this same, tired, argument, he’s suffocating.

“Just saying it doesn’t make it true,” he says. He grits his teeth.

Bitty squeezes again, and Jack risks a peek at his hopeful, upturned smile.

“I know, believe me. But there is a bright side—if it doesn’t matter what you do anyway, doesn’t that mean you should do what makes you happy?”

 _Soulmate_ , echoes through Jack’s thoughts, tangling up in memories of Bitty—photos, games, coffees blurring into the more mundane minutiae of unplanned coexistence. Has he ever lied to Bitty? That would be the easiest way to debunk the entire farce, but if he could remember a time when he hadn’t told the truth, the problem would be redundant.

The next most expedient thing would be to see if Bitty’s ever lied to him, but from what Jack knows of him, Bitty doesn’t have a deceptive bone in his body.

The only thing he can think of that Bitty might have lied about to _anyone_ is being gay, and technically, he hasn’t come out to Jack yet.

“Are you gay?”

Tact is not among Jack’s strengths.

Bitty drops Jack’s hands and gapes up at him, eyes huge.

“Did you not know? I mean, I thought everyone on the team knew. Is that—Is this a probl—“

“Don’t be an ass, of course it’s not a problem,” Jack snaps. “I just wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth if I asked.”

Bitty’s fingers clench around his apron strings, and he pouts up at Jack.

“Why would I lie? I’ve been out for over a year now.”

“It’s the only thing I thought you might lie about,” Jack says, untying the bow of his apron as he does it.

He’s not sure where this conversation is going, but he’s not prepared to keep blurting out the first embarrassing thing that comes to mind. Soon enough, he’s going to voice his ridiculous suspicion, and Bitty will probably laugh until he cries.

“I don’t think staying in the closet counts as lying, really,” Bitty says, snagging Jack’s elbow on his way out of the kitchen, “but if it were, you’d have been right. I kept a lot of myself hidden for a long time back home, and now that I’m here, I don’t plan to do the same.”

Tripping over his words, Jack manages a nod and a strangled, “You’re braver than I am,” before he doubles his run to burn off his nervous energy.

***

He starts to test his limits.

He can’t knowingly mislead Bitty. Spring C passes, and Jack is the only one who remembers much of anything. Bitty’s tweets serve as a refresher for some of the highlights, and no one will ever let him forget that his shoe came off at some point while he was dancing. Hopefully, though, everyone will forget that Jack had volunteered to piggyback Bitty home.

“Zack Jimmermann!” Bitty crows. “You are a _gem_.”

Holster and Ransom run ahead to find a pen to write it down. Shitty cries with pride that someone will continue his storied tradition of nicknaming new teammates, and Lardo rubs his back in circles.

“I haven’t had a nickname since the one Parse gave me in the Q,” Jack mentions when there’s a lull.

“I like this one better than _Zimms_. What do you think— _Zack_ or _Jimmy_?”

No one’s called him Zack since, so Jack assumes no one managed to find a pen. Jimmy wouldn’t be so bad, maybe. Once he gets to camp with the Falcs, he’ll try it out.

Bitty’s birthday is an ordeal.

Keeping the new oven a surprise when it’s all he can think about is nearly impossible, and he spends most of his time with Bitty going over his final portfolio for his photography class so he has literally anything else to say.

Everything is orchestrated so that Jack won’t have to see Bitty until the other boys bring him back to the Haus, but when he and Bitty cross paths for a brief moment, it’s torturous.

“It’s your birthday?” he asks, and if he had any doubt that there was some merit to the idea of a physical inability to lie to Bitty, it would have been gone in the wake of his sudden nauseous surge.

 _I’m not lying. I’m making sure he’s surprised_ , Jack repeats it to himself until Bitty, skeptical and a little crestfallen, slinks off to the next leg of his birthday relay.

His reaction was worth Jack’s struggle. Every second of it.

# **_le dénouement_ **

Graduation is hard. Coming to terms with the fact that he was leaving his home is harder. Moving to Providence while Bitty, his probable soulmate, prepares to go back to Madison for the summer is too much.

So, when Bitty mentions that Jack’s welcome to come down for the fourth of July, Jack jumps at the offer.

The month away doesn’t do much but prove that Jack can’t lie through text either.

(Bittle: _Any plans for today?_

Me: _Nothing but texting you._ )

June passes in a sticky haze, although Jack is willing to concede Georgia is probably worse than Rhode Island, and July rolls around too slowly. Jack’s toyed with the idea of driving down just to give himself something to do until the fourth, but his flight is already booked, and his truck’s gas mileage isn’t anything to write home about.

_Let me know when you board. I’ll pick you up at the airport!_

Jack bites his lip to keep from grinning at his phone on a crowded shuttle.

_I will. I’m looking forward to it._

Now that he’s acknowledged his compulsive need to open up to Bitty, he’s gotten better about how much he shares. He doesn’t say _I can’t wait to see you_ or _I’ve missed you_ , even though he’s a few seconds from hiring a skywriter to spell it out for Bitty.

As long as he conveys some of the sentiment, he’s fine. It’s like letting off the steam in a pressure cooker.

When Bitty wraps him in a hug at the airport, Jack remembers suddenly that the pressure cooker is not so much a pressure cooker as it is a supernova.

“It’s great to see you, Bittle.”

“I’m so glad you made it down,” Bitty says.

***

The first person Jack meets after he gets settled in and gives Suzanne a Falcs cap as a hostess gift is Bitty’s grandmother.

She’s definitely the source of Bitty’s stature—maybe five feet tall all told, and she has the same cow eyes as her daughter and grandson.

“Moo Maw’s staying with us for the holiday, too. She’s taking the guest room, so you and Dicky’ll have to bunk up.”

 _No, that is a bad idea_ , Jack thinks, and then he dutifully eliminates blood relationships from his deception defect.

“We’ve got a fold up cot in the attic I can bring down,” Bitty reassures Jack so quickly he forgets he hasn’t said anything out loud. “You won’t have to worry ‘bout me hogging the covers.”

Bitty and his mom are off and up the stairs with all the unearthly speed their southern hospitality grants them, and Jack’s eyes dart awkwardly to Moo Maw.

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Honey, you’re not a very good liar.”

Jack grumbles, “I used to be,” and perches on the loveseat across the living room from Moo Maw’s couch. She’s seated with her legs tilted and crossed at the ankles, so as much as Jack would like to collapse into the cushions, he stays upright.

“Sounds like you’re smitten,” she teases, a sly grin making her look considerably less like Bitty than she had before.

“What? I’m not—“

Moo Maw grins wider and waves a hand at him. “I don’t need to know your business, sweetie. We’re not much for hockey down here, but I’m sure you’ve got a lot of people up north who’d love to know all about your girlfriend.”

His relief is overshadowed by the little reminder of the real world. The world Bitty grew up in, where you’re assumed straight until proven otherwise.

“How can you tell?”

If he’s really so obvious, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to do some reconnaissance. Bitty’s grandmother won’t be the only person to notice Jack’s distraction, but if he knows his tells, maybe he can hide them while he’s here.

“You found the other half of your soul. Whoever she is, you belong with her.”

 _Soulmate_.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You can’t lie to yourself, and your soulmate’s just part of you put inside another person. Once you find her, it makes you more honest. I’d bet you figured that out for yourself, though, if the way you’re gawping is any sort of sign.”

“Well, Bitty said something, but… That’s just a folk tale, isn’t it?”

Moo Maw’s smile sours.

“Dicky’s mama doesn’t believe it, and she scared that boy senseless, but it’s real as the nose on your face.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jack reels. His parents lie to each other all the time. Only about little things—who forgot to take out the trash, what happened to the bumper of the car—but they’re still bigger lies than Jack’s ever managed to tell Bitty. Jack’s not naïve enough to believe that every marriage is perfect, and he knows his mom and dad have their share of disagreements, but he’s sure they’re happy.

“I can see your wheels spinning,” she laughs. Moo Maw crosses the room to sit next to him and rub his shoulder. “Just because two people aren’t soulmates doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. That’s what Suzanne never understood. There’s billions of people all over this planet, and only one of them is your other half.

“Most people live their whole lives without ever even meeting their soulmates, and that’s just the way of it. Me and my husband are happy as clams after thirty years together, and he still doesn’t know I was going steady with his best friend when he asked me to the prom.”

“So, then, what—“

Her hands are still strong from years of kneading and rolling, and they jostle him gently.

“If you’re one of the lucky people to find her, you need to keep her, Jack.”

Moo Maw’s still rocking him, Jack’s fingers pressed to his temples, when Suzanne comes flying down the stairs.

“Oh, right!” she sniffs, and wipes at the mascara that’s collected under her eyes. “Sorry, Jack. We had to call Coach to ask where the cot’s sheets were, and we just got a little carried away.”

Her nose is red, and Moo Maw’s mouth tightens when Suzanne sniffs again and blinks tightly.

“Is everything okay?”

Suzanne shakes her head firmly, pasting on a stiff smile.

“Sure is! Dicky’s just tidying upstairs. He’ll be down soon enough.”

Jack can feel two pairs of eyes on him, both pleading wordlessly. It stands to reason that he’s as susceptible to them when they belong to Bitty’s family as he is when they’re Bitty’s own.

“Would it be alright if I went upstairs?”

“Of course, sweetheart. It’ll be the second door on your right.”

“Jack,” Moo Maw stops him before he stands. “You need to _keep her_.”

He helps her up so she can fuss over Suzanne, and Jack takes the steps two at a time with new resolve.

Bitty’s sniffling is loud even through the closed door of his bedroom, so Jack knocks before easing the door open.

“Mama, I’m not ready to talk about it,” Bitty mumbles. He’s half-buried in his bed, face pressed into a nest of pillows, with a stuffed rabbit clutched to his stomach.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Jack says.

“I’m not at all.”

Jack ventures close enough to sit on the edge of the bed, and he can see enough of Bitty’s face from here to make out his puzzled frown.

“I… didn’t mean to say that.”

“So you _are_ okay?”

“No, but I was going to tell you I am.”

Bitty flops onto his back and boggles at Jack.

“I didn’t mean to say that either?” he says. He swipes at his face with the palm of his free hand and uses the other to haul himself up, using Jack’s arm for leverage.

“Were you going to lie to me?”

“Not maliciously!” Bitty says. “You’re here on a break, and I really don’t want to spend your whole visit talking about how my crush on you is so pathetic that even Coach noticed.”

Bitty covers his mouth with both hands and yelps.

“Lie to me.” Jack needs to know if that lost, vulnerable moue is Bitty’s own way of reconciling what Jack’s been trying to wrap his head around for months. "Tell me something—anything—as long as it’s a lie. I need you to just—“

Jack hovers in close to Bitty, prompting him with tentative fingers to lower his hands, and processes the enormity. He’s already about ten steps ahead, moving Bitty into his Providence apartment and talking to George about the best way to publically come out. Jack is ready to take Bitty to Montréal and introduce him to his childhood friends, but more than anything, he’s ready to add the closeness of a kiss to the sensation of Bitty’s nervous breath fluttering against his mouth.

“I—“ Bitty hesitates, licking his lips. “I have blond hair. I live in Georgia and I go to Samwell. I’m gay, and I, I—I’m—Jack? Jack, I’m really trying to lie here, but every time I try to say something that isn’t true, it’s like—it autocorrects by the time I say it. What’s going on?”

Sliding his fingertips along Bitty’s arms, up his shoulders, and into his hair, Jack cups Bitty’s jaw in his hands and grins.

“I’m not sure if I’ll be ready for a wedding by January, man, but I’ll be careful peeling all my apples from now on, anyway.”

“What?”

“Someone told me soulmates can’t lie to each other. It’s just one of those things: if you peel an apple all in one piece, you’re getting married; if your nose itches, it means someone’s talking about you; if you can’t lie to someone, it means they’re your soulmate.”

Bitty blinks, but Jack takes it as a good sign that he shuffles onto his knees and into Jack’s touch.

“ _What_. _Are. You. Talking. About?_ ”

He goes for broke.

Jack isn’t normally a tentative kisser, but Bitty is fragile—precious. He’s something special, so Jack nuzzles close into his cheek and tips his face up just enough so he can press his mouth to the corner of Bitty’s upper lip. For a few serene seconds, Jack breathes into his space, and Bitty’s mouth falls slack.

He isn’t sure how or when, but at some point, Bitty abandons passivity in favor of complete direction. The length of his chest slides across the sweat-damp fabric of Jack’s button-down shirt. Bitty laps at the peak of Jack’s upper lip, rakes his fingers through the mess of Jack’s hair, and somehow seats himself completely in Jack’s lap, legs wrapped around Jack’s middle. It doesn’t all happen at once, but it’s a foggy sequence of events. He isn’t overly concerned with knowing when Bitty tipped them horizontally onto his mattress, though. The reality is more than enough for him.

Bitty’s face is tacky, and when their cheeks meet, the dried tears catch and drag against Jack’s skin. Every time it happens, Jack brushes his fingers through the cowlick at the crown of Bitty’s head and hopes he’s found a way to tell his truth without having to say anything at all.

“I need to breathe,” Bitty whimpers, gaze lingering on Jack’s mouth even as he pulls away.

Jack’s chest wells up with contentment at Bitty panting into his neck, and he sneaks irrepressible kisses into the exposed curve of Bitty’s neck.

“Uh. So, soulmates, eh?”

**Author's Note:**

> ((@ whoever has the url zackjimmermann on tumblr and isn't using it--be a pal and send it my way pls? thanks xx))


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